


Flushed

by ladyknightanka



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Accidental Marriage, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Bullying, Civil War, Demon King Stiles, F/M, Fusion - Kyo Kara Maoh, Innuendo, M/M, Mild Language, Slow Build, Swords and Sorcery, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2012-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-11 08:50:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyknightanka/pseuds/ladyknightanka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, being a good friend and having sound moral values can suck. In Stiles's case, it sucks him right down the toilet, into a magical alternate universe where he's demon king, has magical powers, and is engaged to a surly prince. ...His dad really should have borrowed parenting tips from the Whittemores.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Porcelain Throne

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a long time since I started a multichapter fic that wasn't for a big bang, but what can I say? I was inspired by all the fun Teen Wolf AU fics I've been reading, and figured I'd try my hand at one. This is loosely inspired by [Kyo Kara Maoh](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kyo_Kara_Maoh!), but has been changed _a lot_ beyond the initial premise, so even if you've never heard of KKM, you can follow along like anyone else. Enjoy! ♥

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all Jackson's fault.

-

Chapter One: The Porcelain Throne

-

Stiles's father is already gone by the time he wakes up, but that's nothing new. The message Stiles overhears on the police-scanner wired to his beat up jeep, however, _is_.

“Scott, Scott, Scott!” Stiles exclaims, as soon as he sights his best friend peddling into Beacon Hills High School's parking lot. There may be some arm flailing and jumping involved, as well.

“W-what, Stiles?” Scott asks upon arrival, bent in half with his hands on his knees, leaning against his bike. You'd think he wouldn't be so out of breath anymore, after biking to school for about two years and everywhere else for at least ten, but Stiles blames the asthma, not Scott.

He waits for Scott to regain his bearings and lock his bike onto the nearby stand, before blurting out, “They found _a body_ in the woods,” perhaps an octave too loud for comfort. Other students and a couple of teachers stop to stare at them, but Stiles shoos them away. “Nothin' to see here, folks.”

“A b-body?” Scott mimes, brown eyes round enough to dwarf his face. He's always been a little slow on the uptake.

Stiles allows him to process the idea for a few seconds, then says, “Yes, Scott, a body. Or, well, half a body. You know what that means, right?”

Scott picks at one of the large pockets on his red hoodie. “Someone died. Maybe they were murdered?”

“A _girl_ , actually, and yeah,” Stiles says. He doesn't mean for it to come out callous, as if he's saying 'duh', but good intentions pave the way to hell, or whatever. If nothing else, he thinks he deserves props for not rolling his eyes, as he settles an arm around Scott's shoulders to lead him up the school steps. “It _means_ –” he continues, voice dropping to a furtive whisper, “–that they haven't found the other half yet. There're gonna be search parties all night and _we'll_ help them after school.”

Scott sucks in a sharp breath and digs his heels into the marble floor just ahead of Jackson Whittemore's locker. “Stiles, no!”

“Yes,” Stiles says, gesticulating wildly again. “This is our chance to become somebodies, even _heroes_. Don't you wanna be a hero, Scott?”

“I-I guess, but can't it be on the lacrosse field?” Scott inquires, receiving a snort for his troubles. Scott pouts. “No, seriously. I'm gonna make the team this year, I know it!”

The determination in his tone gives Stiles pause, then elicits a wan smile, more fond than mocking, despite him recalling the debilitating asthma attack Scott had last year, that knocked him off his feet _before_ tryouts even began.

“If that happens, bro, you'll have to let me in on what kinda magic you worked,” Stiles says, “'cause here I was thinking you'd be the Captain America to my Iron Man, but apparently the Scarlet Witch is your _real_ alter ego, eh?”

“No, I–” Scott tints red enough to pass for 'scarlet', but rough claps against both of their backs silence his defense. His eyes widen again.

“Listen to your Best Freak Forever, McCall,” Jackson says, suddenly behind them. He must have been eavesdropping. Stiles wonders how they missed his _Clive Christian_ stink for so long. “Just embrace your inner, PMS-ing super-woman.”

Stiles grits his teeth. Only he can tease Scott; that's, like, the first unwritten rule of the Best Freaks Forever code. He shrugs Jackson off and whips around.

Danny and Lydia are at Jackson's rear. The former shoots Stiles an apologetic glance. It's obvious _he_ gets the code, at least. Lydia, on the other hand, doesn't bother to look away from her portable makeup mirror. Any other day, Stiles would take the opportunity to compliment the perfect, precise application of her _Cle de Peau_ lip-gloss, but not now.

“Yeah, Scott, listen,” Stiles says. Jackson's fair eyebrows vanish into his hairline, then furrow together, little war trenches, when he continues, “If anyone knows a thing or two about embracing their true self, it's Jackson. He embraces his inner dick several times a day, in fact. Outer, too.”

“Why, you little...” Jackson growls, releasing his grip on the strap of Scott's backpack to reach out for Stiles, who flits out of his grasp, back toward Danny.

“Why, me?” Stiles asks, his own eyebrows arching to play incredulous. “Jackson, dude, employing the tired threats of B-list villains everywhere is a little weak, even for you.”

“Stiles, come on,” Scott protests feebly, facing Stiles now and flashing him his infamous puppy eyes.

Danny's hands fall on Stiles's shoulders to brace him. “Jackson, you're being an idiot,” he says. Stiles attempts to nod in agreement, but Danny's fingers clench and instead evoke a flinch. “Why don't we all head to class? No point being late, right?

Danny's likable, sensible Danny-ness halts Jackson's warpath. He scowls between Scott and Stiles, nostrils flared like he'll breathe fire through them any minute, but relents.

“Fine, let's go,” Jackson spits out, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles out of one of his sleeves.

Danny pushes Stiles back to Scott with a gentle shove and beams. Although Stiles loathes to think he has anything in common with Jackson, he has a feeling Danny's dimples and Scott's puppy eyes reside on a realm of best friend guilt-trippery that nothing else can broach. Danny's dimples have soothed the savage dragon for the moment, anyway.

Lydia hums, however, thumbs quicksilver now on the keypad of her cellphone. “The captain of the lacrosse team, outwitted by a – what did you call him? – _freak_. That'll make for a charming anecdote one day, hm?”

Even Stiles flinches at that. _So close_. He thinks she must still be punishing him for his crush on her. For all her incomparable beauty and brains, she can be coldblooded enough that his being unable to help his feelings doesn't matter to her.

“Jackson...” Danny says again, but Jackson's skin drains pale, then flushes rage-red all over.

Although he forces a smirk and his tone is level, Stiles notices the way his balled fists tremble, knuckles white. “You know what, Lydia? You're right. I think I'mma show Stilinski here exactly what goes down in the locker room, since he's so _curious_ about it.”

“Who's curious? George, not me,” Stiles definitely does not squeak. No, he says it with utter masculinity, thank you very much, and squawks in much the same manner when Jackson's fingers close around the collar of his plaid shirt.

“Think of it as a favor. Not like you or McCall will see the inside of the locker room any other way, right?” Jackson says, with a hard jerk to Stiles's shirt that makes him stumble and choke. Other students part in a hurry, a Red Sea of cowards, to let them pass.

“Jackson, come on,” Danny calls after them, but doesn't follow.

Lydia finally deigns to look away from her trinkets, up at Stiles. He wants to believe there's a hint of remorse in the sulky purse of her lips. He's always been an optimist, after all.

Scott ends that fantasy, possibly Stiles's very last fantasy, by shouting, “H-hold on, Stiles, I'll get the coach,” as if Finstock, who thinks Stiles's name is 'Bilinski', for God's sake, will actually care what his star player-cum-team captain does, so long as it doesn't affect Jackson's ability to score a good goal or three come game night, but dammit, Scott follows the vociferation with a puff of his inhaler, and that's _friendship_ for you.

Too bad Scott's affirmation merely curls Jackson's full lips into a cruel sneer, as he propels Stiles into the dank, dark depths of the boys' locker room, giving his shin a little kick for good measure.

“This is a, uh, nice place,” Stiles says. He slaps the gaping door of a proximate locker shut and listens to the resounding clang. “If I had some authority, I'd write it a rave review. An A+. It's a worthy locker room for a worthy team.”

Jackson's resultant chuckle huffs warm against the nape of his neck, a startling contrast to the icy cold of his fingertips. “Oh, _now_ you're sucking up to me? Don't'cha think it's a little late?”

At that, Stiles catches his bottom lip between his teeth, abruptly aware that he _had_ being doing that, that he'd actually been kissing Jackson 'Douchebag' Whittemore's ass. Well, imminent pain or not, no more. It's not too late to gather up the remaining vestiges of his pride, because what else will he have, without that?

“Just get on with it, man,” he says, taking a deep breath through the mouth to avoid the acrid smell of sweat-socks so early in the morning. “Cut the diva act and do what you're gonna do or get lost, 'cause I've got a chemistry quiz I can't miss today.”

Jackson laughs again and gives Stiles a hard shake. “I thought we'd go sorta old school – do an oldie, but a goodie.”

“Elvis?” Stiles inquires, half-hopeful. He'll rock willingly to some King. Jackson doesn't respond, though, so he takes a second stab at it. “You gonna stick me in a locker? I'm flattered if you think I have the figure for it, but really, _I don't_.”

“Nah,” Jackson replies, as he pulls Stiles, backwards, out of the hall of lockers and into the shower area. “We'll try that some other time, when McCall isn't here to play tattletale, 'mkay?”

Rather than push Stiles into one of the empty shower stalls, he corners him into the only stall with a toilet, built for last minute emergencies before games. Stiles's jaw drops at the revelation.

“Hey, er, Jackson, pal, buddy, you don't wanna do that,” he says, trying to poise his palms against the walls on either side of him. “What if you get pee on your _Polo_ or something? Cologne can't mask that, no matter how pricey, ya know?”

“I'll take the risk, thanks.” Jackson's fingers inch up to wrap around Stiles's scalp and thrust him forward.

Stiles takes a moment to thank whatever deity is listening – whatever dick deity it may be, who obviously prefers cheekbones that cut diamonds over decent guys like him – that the toilet seems recently cleaned and has been freshly flushed. It emits a faint, lemony scent. _The power of_ _Lysol, baby._

Stiles barely has enough time to observe that and nothing more. He doesn't even get to screw his eyes shut or properly hold his breath, before he's immersed in a mire of rancid water, which proceeds to whirl around his face, a miniature cyclone.

He hears Scott yell his name in the distance, emphasized by the thud of footsteps, but it's too late, too far away, and his vision pitches black.

His last thought is, “Death by swirly. What a shitty way to die.”

Literally.

-

To Be Continued!

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find more detailed warnings and whatnot on [my journal](http://ladyknightanka.livejournal.com/37293.html).


	2. Not in Kansas Anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Purple apples, birds who predict the future, and a familiar face in an unfamiliar setting. Stiles's life is awesome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pleasantly surprised by everyone who's intimate with KKM and supportive of this fic. Thank you! I hope you continue enjoying it. I had a lot of fun with this particular chapter. :D
> 
> A slight warning: there are some German phrases _only_ in this chapter. I used Google for them, so they might not be completely correct, and I also didn't include English translations. My reasons are stylistic, though; Stiles doesn't know what's being said and never really finds out. If you also don't know (I admit, I myself forgot, lol), an interesting effect is created. It's only in half of this chapter, I promise.

-

Chapter Two: Not in Kansas Anymore

-

Stiles wakes up to moisture on his cheek. He thinks for an instant that he must have dreamed about it again – the night of his mother's death – but then he remembers Scott, Jackson, and the swirly of doom. Good, not sleep-crying, then.

He props himself onto his hands and knees, frowning at how they also soak wet, his already baggy jeans hanging heavier than usual. Perhaps the locker room floor is soggy, he theorizes, because of the showers and...other things that he refuses to think about.

“ _W-wer ist das? Was machst du da?_ ” a female voice says from behind him, in a language he doesn't know – German, maybe? Certainly not what elementary Spanish he can recognize.

Stiles's eyes shock open and bulge. Grass. There's _grass_ all around him, beneath his hands and body. Delicate purple flowers dance in his peripheral vision. Above, the sky swims baby blue and cloudless, the sun a gold coin embedded in the clear canvas it provides. Birdsong fills the air, along with more of that unknown language.

Stiles stands on wobbly feet, pivots around, and says, “Well...hello,” to a wide-eyed woman dressed like Laura from _Little House on the Prairie_ , complete with a billowing skirt of rough red cloth and a white linen bonnet.

“ _W-was?_ ”

The woman edges closer to him, a full basket of what looks like apples, except bright purple, held as an improvised shield between her and Stiles. There is a fringe of trees at her rear that bloom the same fruit. An orchard, Stiles supposes. They lead straight behind her and end a few trees behind him. The woman's indigo blue, almost black eyes search his face.

Stiles tries to look as harmless as possible, and even dredges up a small smile for her benefit, but whatever she finds only convinces her to rescind with a scream. Her basket topples to the grass, as she points a shaky finger at him and babbles a string of frightened, foreign words.

Stiles feels a pit of anxiety form in his belly, reminiscent of those awful minutes leading up to the panic attacks that used to plague him. He inhales through his nose and blows out of his mouth, unwilling to let another overtake him after so long.

Meanwhile, more people clamber toward them from the hill on horizon, following the formation of trees. Stiles suspects they hail from the same place the woman does, because they're also dressed in – okay, he admits it, pretty _awesome_ – tunics and bonnets. Is that called retro? They converse with one another in low, angry grumbles.

“L-look, I need to get back home,” he tells them, thumb inclined over his shoulder, in the direction of yet more grassland. “Is this a Renaissance fair of some sort? Am I being _Punk'd_?” He wouldn't put it past Ashton...or Jackson.

In response, a small girl breaks away from the crowd, picks up one of the freaky purple apples, and throws it at him. It plunks against his chest, then rolls away. He hisses, rubbing at the spot with narrowed eyes, and catches only a word of what she screamed at him: “ _Teufel._ ”

Whatever that means.

A harried woman who can only be the girl's mother exclaims, “ _Mein Gott,_ ” gathers the child up against her chest, and breaks out into a run, back the way she came. A few people follow her, but most simply stare at Stiles with pensive expressions.

“Hey, I'm not gonna hurt you guys. I just wanna talk to my dad. Can't I borrow your phone or, um, a carrier pigeon? Telegraph? Bonfire for smoke signals? Not very picky here,” Stiles tells them.

They, unsurprisingly, do not reply. The ones still around him create a circle of bodies to lock him in, neither close enough for him to touch, nor loose enough to break through by charging. Stiles huffs at his weird, unfortunate luck and plops down on the ground, opting out of their crazy rendition of Red Rover.

He still has his backpack, at least. Along with the textbooks inside, there's his latest bottle of _Adderall_ , his iPod, and a few granola bars, due to the healthy eating schtick he insisted his father do. In spite of that, one of the fallen apples adjacent his ankle catches his eye, and whatever he may have told Jackson, Stiles actually _does_ feel a nip of curiosity now and then.

He darts forward to grab it, sniffing at it cautiously. It doesn't smell any different from the apples back home, so he caveats a tiny nibble of its shiny purple skin. Some of the juice slips past his lips. His eyes grow round; the purple apple, for all its odd discoloration, tastes somehow crisper and sweeter than any other fruit he's ever had.

Stiles sits and gorges himself on as many apples as he can find. Wherever he is, there's no wifi, rendering his iPod useless, so he drums his fingers against his thighs for a good half hour, till he hears the thus silent Renaissance folk begin to chatter anew. Dull clops of metal on grass follow.

“ _Also, er ist angekommen?_ ” a disembodied male voice says.

Stiles glances up to find a black horse towering above the line of people, noble, its sleek mane plaited with purple, gossamer flowers. That's not what makes Stiles choke on his last bite of the apple, though. It's the horse's very _familiar_ rider: “J-Jackson?”

He should feel relieved. Jackson's presence must mean that this really is a stupid, peculiarly creative prank, but Jackson looks dead serious, and he's dressed to play the part. A frilly tunic balloons around his arms, trim at the waist, sewed with dark blue and shimmering green material that sets off his similarly tinted eyes. A hat the same color, pointed and feathery enough that it should be silly but isn't, sits atop his head. There's also a wickedly pointed blade, a rapier, sheathed on his belt, that traces the line of his black leggings down till they tuck into his leather boots, with leather gloves to match. If this is a prank, Jackson's pretty convincing.

“ _Verstehst du?_ ” Jackson inquires, and that's a whole other issue. Stiles knows Jackson took – is taking – French II in high school, and is only passable besides. His surprisingly fluid German is, well, _surprising_.

Stiles stands up quickly. “I-I don't know what you're saying. Or what's going on. Or why you look like freaking _Romeo_ right now, oh my God.”

Jackson frowns and considers him for a protracted moment, before hopping off his steed. The peasants seem to trust him, because they move aside to allow him by, until he's toe to toe with Stiles, who doubts he's above paying them all off for their deference. It sucks that the rich and asshole-ish can do whatever they want that way, wherever they go.

“ _Das wird weh tun_ ,” Jackson says with a smile, just before his hand falls on Stiles's forehead, and pain – mind-numbing, soul-crushing _pain_ – seeps through his light touch, impelling Stiles down to his knees. He feels as if someone took a screwdriver, shoved it into both of his eye-sockets, and screwed his brains to jello.

Screams meet his ears. First, he thinks they're the surrounding people's, and perhaps some are, but it hits Stiles like a punch to the gut when he realizes the most keening, shrieking, _pathetic_ scream is his own. He claws at Jackson's fingers with all his might, but can't get them to unclasp. When Jackson finally does free him, it's of his own volition, and Stiles hugs his head with both arms, vision spotty from the agony and wet with tears.

“Fuck, fuck,” he curses under his breath. Jackson picks up on it and smirks.

“Got a mouth on you, huh?” he says, which entices Stiles to meet his gaze, though it hurts like hell to so much as _move_. Jackson sees the mess that his face has devolved into and his smirk smooths out into a frown. “Shit, kid. Didn't mean to hurt you.”

“You can...speak English now?” Stiles asks, staring at the hand Jackson offers him as if his fingertips are about to grow Hydra heads. Never mind the 'kid' thing. Jackson's, what, a few months older than him, if that?

Jackson disregards Stiles's scorn, arm still extended, and says, “No, actually. It's you speaking _our_ language now.”

His claim rings true when a haggard old man separates from the crowd. “You will keep the demon boy now, Milord? May we take our leaves?”

“Demon boy!” Stiles repeats, indignant.

Jackson ignores his affront to nod. “Yes, I'll take good care of him. Thanks for your help.”

The old man bows low at the waist, then barks orders of withdrawal at his peers, who hurry away without a backwards glance. Stiles looks between them and Jackson, mouthing 'milord' to himself. That will just get to Jackson's already huge head, if it's a commonality.

“What the hell's going on, Jackson?” he says aloud, waving his arms to and fro. “Y-you, where are we, Germany? Where'd you get that outfit? How long have you been planning this, 'cause dude, you have issues.”

Jackson presses his lips flat together, evidently annoyed with being bossed around, but answers, “It seems you know me, then? You know my name, in any case,” which isn't an answer at all. Bastard.

“ _Yes_ , I know your freaking name!” Stiles lowers his arms to his sides and tries valiantly not to throw a tantrum. That's more Jackson's niche than his. “You're Jackson Whittemore. We've been in the same classes since pre-school. We both like Lydia Martin. You prefer fancy shampoo made of umbilical cords to keep your perfect hair perfect, instead of good old-fashioned _Head and Shoulders_. Oh, and you're the lacrosse team captain. I know you, okay?”

Jackson frowns at him, bemused more than annoyed, then turns away toward his horse. Just like that, he starts to pet its snout, as if Stiles isn't even there anymore. Stiles sort of, really wants to sock him a good one, but that won't do any good, considering the dangerous sword of dangerousness still clipped to Jackson's waist.

Before his silence can get too stifling, Jackson breaks it. “To answer your question, we're in Beacon Hills. Apparently, your world parallels it.”

Stiles stares – first at Jackson, then at the spanning fields of grass, flowers and trees around them. A big, black bird with huge eyes and an orange beak swoops down from one's canopy, missing his head by a hairsbreadth. “Bad omen!” it utters. Stiles ignores it for the sake of his sanity.

“This–” he says, arms open in a pantomime hug, “–is not Beacon Hills. I _know_ Beacon Hills. My father's the sheriff of Beacon Hills. Take a second to remember that, Jackson. You can go to _jail_ for kidnapping in general, much less kidnapping the sheriff's son. You're way too pretty for jail!”

That earns a laugh from Jackson, curt and decidedly _not nice_. “You just proved my point. This is a parallel world, kid.”

“ _Stiles_ , not kid,” Stiles interjects, gnashing his teeth together. Great. Just great. He's stuck in a mirror 'verse worthy of _Star Trek_. Of course he is.

“Well, Stiles,” Jackson says, patronizing as ever, nose crinkled as if the name hasn't quite met his standards, “this is all very interesting. Really. And I'd love to discuss it with you, at length–” Here, his eyes take on a creepy gleam, “–but it'll have to be elsewhere. There are eyes and ears everywhere.”

Stiles wants to ask where, inside a flower, but Jackson's fingers close around his bicep and begin to tug. It's a little too redolent of the scenario that brought him to Beacon Hills 2.0 in the first place. He tries to fight off Jackson's grip, but can't.

“Why would I go anywhere with you? _You're_ the reason I'm in this mess,” he starts to complain, but Jackson's palm claps hard against his mouth.

“Shh,” Jackson hisses, head cocked to listen. His horse does the same, static as its master, and that's why the cacophony caused by inbound hooves is so jarring.

Someone else is coming.

-

To Be Continued!

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, who could the someone be? :O I'll be honest, I love slow-building plots, so it might not be who you want it to be. Don't worry, though, it won't be too long till it is! Hope you all had as much fun reading this as I did, writing. Let me know what you thought! :D

**Author's Note:**

> Other characters/pairings/warnings will be added as needed. A more detailed set of warnings/disclaimers is available in [my journal](http://ladyknightanka.livejournal.com/37293.html).


End file.
